


Iridescent

by Meero94



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meero94/pseuds/Meero94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When is a monster not a monster?<br/>Oh, when you love it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iridescent

**Author's Note:**

> This entire piece is inspired by Caitlyn Siehl's amazing poem [Start Here ](http://alonesomes.tumblr.com/post/99499551436/start-by-pulling-him-out-of-the-fire-and-hoping). I've read this poem so many times that I finally decided to put my mind to rest and write something for it. I hope you like it!

He knew what makes a monster. How could he not when he was one himself and for so long. He knew that whereas most people would imagine sharp teeth and wicked talons, a real monster could have the face of an angel. Could blind you with clear eyes and pink lips. He knew that a monster could wear your face and grin back at you through a mirror.

His dreams didn't have the luxury of being dreams, for they were memories. The smell of charcoal that haunted his nights lived under his skin. The resounding screams and the ache under his collarbone were the remnants of a previous life. The same one that mothered the monster.

He knew better than anyone that a monster could never be killed. Not unless you burn its body and scatter the ashes. He knew. And yet, he pretended that he didn't.

When the boy with the sunlit hair had come for him, the monster had stood frozen.

For the first time in what felt like centuries, the monster didn't know what to do. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in question but never moved away. He stood, the way a wild beast might, while two men approached him. One of them had hope trapped in his eyes while the other had doubt heaving his steps. Back then, the monster knew nothing of hope but understood doubt. He stared at the sunlit man and his strange eyes, but he gritted his teeth and held still despite the screaming in his head. He let the hopeful man’s false reassurances wash over him and only growled once at the doubtful man’s raised weapon. The other one, with the dark skin and the mistrustful eyes, muttered something that sounded urgent. He cautioned the one with the glassy eyes, but the latter seemed to ignore the warning. The monster watched it all with fascination, his breath held and his eyes roaming over the two men.

They looked strange. They looked familiar.

_When is a monster not a monster?_

He didn't know. A monster could never change what it was. What it was made to be. How can a monster not be a monster, he often wondered.

He remembered what he did –him, the monster, _someone_. He recalled the pain exploding in his head when he tried not to complete a mission, and shuddered at the memory. There was a scar at the base of his skull from the time he refused to kill a little kid. He only killed the kid’s parents.

The man with the warm eyes first told the monster that he was safe. _You’re alright,_ he had said gently.  _I've got you. You’re safe now._ But the monster didn't know what safe meant. The concept was -had always been- foreign to him.

He regarded the strange man for a moment, and then turned a curious glance to the dubious one. The latter allowed him a small smile although it looked pained, which the monster understood fully, and nodded his head but his eyes remained guarded. The monster understood that too.

It took him months to stop calling himself _that_. Well, in his head at least. He could hardly go around calling himself _the monster_ without Steve –that was the hopeful man’s name- giving him a betrayed look or Sam –the sane skeptical one- dragging him to some therapist.

 _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._ Steve told him. _You’re Bucky. You’re not a monster._

 _When is a monster not a monster?_ Bucky would think to himself but nod absently at Steve's reassurances. What would Steve know of monsters anyway; he was the furthest thing from a monster Bucky had ever seen.

Bucky. At least the monster never knew that, so the name remained unstained. Free of the echo of screams and the flashes of nightmares. _Bucky._ He still had trouble responding to it sometimes.

Bucky knew what made a monster. Of course he did. His problem, he thought, was that he didn't know how to stop being one or how to forget it. How to claw out the guilt living in his throat or the evil running in his veins. He didn't know how to un-know the feeling of crushing someone’s bones or the weight of a gun in his hands. How do you erase the sound of begging from your mind and the images attached to it?

He almost asked Natalia once but decided against it. He saw something of him in her; the coldness of steel in her eyes and the cutting smile of someone suffering, but it was not enough still. She was no monster, he decided. She wouldn't know.

He spent days upon days thinking on this. Sometimes he talked to Sam about it. A few scattered words that the other man had to assemble and make sense of, while Bucky chewed on his lower lip and dug his old dog tags into his palm. Sam would always smile at him –very sad and not at all doubtful- and tell Bucky that they all had their ghosts. That monsters wouldn't try to stop being monsters, because the mere act of trying to do so meant that they were human and no longer monsters.

Bucky didn't believe him.

He knew what made a monster and he knew that he was one. Had the Winter Soldier not slowed down on a kill before? Had he not tried to fight back? Because he did slow down and he did try to stop, but that made him no more human than a weapon momentarily stalling.

He thanked Sam for his trouble anyway.

_When is a monster not a monster?_

Steve heard him muttering it by accident. He came up from behind him and rested a chin on Bucky’s shoulder, his arms snaking around Bucky's waist and staying there. He couldn't see Steve’s face but he could feel his frown. The concern making Steve’s breaths shallow, and his fingers digging deep into Bucky’s sides.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, tentative and soft as rays of the winter sun, his voice barely there and at odds with his grounding touch. Bucky recalled thinking of him as the _sunlit boy_ when he first saw him. Not when the _monster_ saw him, but when Bucky did. Because, Bucky thought, maybe they, the monster and Bucky, weren't the same person at all. Or maybe they were but aren't anymore. Either way, he’ll have to learn to live with it.

Bucky hummed his assent and leaned back into Steve.

Steve. Warm and alive and so _so_ different from the monster’s icy fingers that sidled up Bucky’s spine when alone. The monster always retreated to the back of Bucky’s mind when Steve was around. Maybe Bucky should keep him around more often.

“Buck,” Steve repeated, his breath skimming over Bucky’s skin, the word safe and true in his mouth. _You’re safe now,_ Bucky thought. Steve tugged at Bucky’s shirt, moving him so they faced each other, and spoke again. “All good?”

Bucky felt a tightening in his chest. He felt the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips, and the telltale warmth of Steve’s gaze locked on his own.

Over a year ago when Steve found him, Bucky saw something unidentifiable in Steve’s eyes. _Hope_ , he had decided much later. And Steve’s gaze did hold hope, but it also held something that the soldier –that Bucky didn't see back at the time. Something that he only figured out a while ago. It held _love_.

_When is a monster not a monster?_

_Oh, when you love it._

“All good,” Bucky confirmed, his lips ghosting over Steve’s and relishing the brilliant smile they drew.

Maybe he had been asking the wrong questions all along, he thought as he stood with tingling lips and a lighter heart. Maybe it’s not how to forget the monster but how to _love_ what of Bucky survived him that he needed to learn.

Maybe he should let Steve teach him after all.  

**Author's Note:**

> So I realize that this fic probably didn't make much sense and that I didn't do the poem justice at all (why am I posting this again?), but do check the [poem](http://alonesomes.tumblr.com/post/99499551436/start-by-pulling-him-out-of-the-fire-and-hoping) anyway because it's amazing and deserves a read. I asked Caitlyn for permission before using it and she, kindly enough, granted it. 
> 
> You can give me a prompt on [tumblr](http://sulkybbarnes.tumblr.com/ask) if you for some reason like my writing. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this. I'd love to hear what you think; Kudos and comments are most appreciated! 


End file.
